Hutch's Hands
by bluespiritgal
Summary: Companion piece to "Starsky's Smiles"


**A companion piece to "Starsky's Smiles"**

**Hutch's Hands**

My partner is a very unusual man, full of contrasts and deep rooted emotions he tries to hide, to control, but what he doesn't realize is his hands always give him away. They are my gauge to the mood and well being of my partner and the bond we share.

The first time I remember taking his hand into mine is when the tall blond trips over his own two feet and stumbles into the dorm room of the Academy and I introduce myself to what I'm guessing is my new roommate.

The first thing I notice as I shake his hand is it's so damn big, with long fingers, like a pianist, but with calluses. The shake is firm, if not a little nervous, but genuine. I can usually tell a lot by a man's shake and I find myself liking this one. The hand lingers in mine just a few seconds longer as he kinda stares, like he's trying to figure me out, before it drops awkwardly away. I don't mind. I take a little getting use'ta sometimes.

We are almost finished with our training. Soon we'll be graduating, hitting the streets, making our dreams come true. I'm excited and relieved the final exams are done. Graduation is just around the corner. Ma's even coming out. Uncle Fred and Aunt Rosie too.

I come back into the dorm room to find Hutch sitting on his bed. Immediately I know something ain't right.

In those big hands he holds a small stack of papers. He holds them like they are something very fragile, about to turn to dust and blow away, as he stares down at them.

I sit next to him. I can see the slight tremor in his hands, a thumb running over the signature at the bottom. I glance at the final divorce papers and I understand.

"Thought, hoped we could somehow still work it out."

"I'm sorry, Hutch."

The big hands then clutch the sheets, crumpling them in his fingers as he blinks his eyes several times, but he won't cry. I can see his jaw tighten, muscles bunching in anger, then guilt before his whole body just sags in defeat.

All I can do is put my hand on his shoulder, give it a squeeze. He doesn't say anything, but his hand reaches up, grabs mine and just hangs on. I let him, for as long as he needs to, I just let him hang on.

The next time those hands are reaching out they are cupping the battered and bruised face of a hooker cowering in a corner. We've been partners for just a few months and responded to a disturbance call to find the girl's pimp taking it out on her for not bringing in enough dough. Those hands only a few moments before had sent the pimp sailing across the room. Now they reach out to comfort the battered face gently, help her to a waiting ambulance as he tells her everything's going to be all right. After the ambulance drives away, they bunch into fists. I place my hand on his shoulder, let it linger and soon I see the big hands unfurling.

It's been a couple of weeks since Forrester nabbed him, strung him out and I managed to get my partner back, followed by forty-eight hours of sweat and pain. The hands still tremble. I know the craving's still there along with the guilt. It's an uphill battle he's fighting, a fierce monkey to shake, but he ain't alone in this battle. I'm right there with him 'cause I can't be anywhere else when I see my partner hurting. Those hands cling to me like a boy lost, shaky, in doubt. I sheild him, put both our badges on the line, and let those hands cling tight until one day he's able to look up and I can see the sky blue eyes once more gain their light, life back. The fingers that cup the back of my neck, weave into my hair and squeeze speak the words that are hard to say. They are not needed of course, they never are, but I hear them anyway.

My partner wasn't too thrilled we are driving across town to an Italian restaurant in the pouring ass rain all because I didn't want scrambled eggs. I sure pick a winner that night. Next thing I know I'm laying in a back room with a crease across my skull and a hell of a lot of pain in my back. I hear angry words coming out of my partner's mouth. He ain't shouting, but talking low, icily.

"A real fine mess you got us in Teresa."

I'm not exactly rowing with both oars at that particular moment, but I can tell when my partner's really pissed. And boy is he pissed.

Yet the hands that touch my burning back are remarkably gentle. I still flinch from the pain though.

"Easy, Starsk. Easy."

Those long fingers linger on my shoulder, transmitting both his worry and concern but also his strength. It's enough to help me suck up the pain, try and focus on my surroundings.

At some point, I end up on the floor. Those same hands are lifting me up, leaning me across his lap, against his chest, the long fingers holding onto my waist. I can feel them shaking now but he tries to joke it off.

"What are you doing on the floor?" he asks.

I chuckle following his lead. "Thought I'd dig a tunnel and go for help."

The fingers across my waist pat my belly affectionately, then suddenly pull me a little closer to him.

For some reason he's fixated on my left arm. Keeps asking me how it feels. At that moment, I'm not sure why he's so concerned. I can't feel anything. Only later I learn I came pretty close to having permanent nerve damage.

A little later those fingers are wrapped around a hunk of junk that could as easily go off in my partner's face as it could actually work. I'm not likin' the whole idea of this piece of crap being the only thing standing between my partner and the two nuts in the other room, but I can't do anything to help him. I crack some joke about capped teeth, but he really knows what I mean.

The hand cups my shoulder, the fingers squeezing me in assurance, but I can feel their tremble. I know he's scared. I reach up, brush my own fingers against his before my hand drops weakly back, my throat tightening, feeling so damn useless! We both know the odds ain't in my partner's favor.

When everything's finally over and I start waking up from the anesthesia some time way later, the first thing I feel is that big hand in mine, those long fingers wrapped around me. I give a little squeeze and it's returned in strength.

"Hey, partner," he says.

I open my eyes groggily to see the big blond bloodshot mug leaning over me. The other hand comes up, the long fingers thread into my hair like they're drawn to me with a magnet. Despite the pain I suddenly realize I'm in, I relax.

"No more Italian restaurants for you for a while, buddy. Next time we're definitely doing scrambled eggs."

I grin back.

After I'm healed and back on duty, once again beside my partner, Hutch has cornered a suspect up against the wall. We're looking for a dealer responsible for passing dope to the local middle school that put an eleven year old into an overdosed coma. The high schools are bad enough, but eleven, twelve year old kids, we both see red. The man's not talkin' but it doesn't stop my partner. The hands and fingers suddenly become an extension of the icy rage boiling just under the surface. One index finger comes out and is lifted just into to man's peripheral vision as the pale blue eyes harden into glaciers.

It's always kinda funny to watch their eyes dart from my partner's icy stare to the damn finger and before we know it, the junkie is spilling the information we need.

My partner can be pretty intimidating with just one finger, I should know. Been on the receiving end of it a few times myself, usually when I'm trying ta hide something from him 'cause I don't want him to worry or go ballistic, like the time after Bellamy when I was still recovering from the poison.

The doc had already told me it was going to take a little time, my system had gone through a hell of a lot. I'm home but still on a bunch of meds for the lingering symptoms. The cramps came back later that night. They're bad, real bad and the pills the doc gave me aren't helping that much. I'm suddenly scared all over again.

I thought I could just slip away from the small group invited over for dinner, just Dobey, Huggy and a couple of girls, take a couple more pills and get my composure back. Next thing I know I've got the Blond Mother Hen standing next to me. I try and smokescreen him with a few jokes but he ain't buying it. The finger comes out.

"You tell me! You tell me what's going on!"

Next thing I know, the party's over and Hutch is hauling my ass back to the doctor for a new prescription.

It was only after Lionel was killed and we quit the force for a while that I noticed a change in Hutch's hands. They didn't reach out as much anymore. They withdrew, like the man himself. I could tell the toilet bowl we worked in had been starting to drag him down for a while now, but the change in him now had me worried.

Hutch has always been a pretty serious kinda guy, with a lot of deep rooted emotions, but what I've always liked about him was his attitude, his drive to make a difference, even if it was in the eyes of just one bruised, beaten up hooker for a few hours.

But idealism has now been replaced with cynicism and withdrawl. In the last several months he's gets angry more. He doesn't smile as much either, not even at my dumb jokes. He's letting himself go and each day I feel him pulling away from me just a little more. The hands retract more, stay in his lap or bunch at his sides.

I find myself missing him, even when he's sittin' there right next to me. I miss the touch of those hands. It makes me sad. I don't know what to do anymore, other than just try and be there for him. I even try to change a little myself. You know, clean myself up, try and be a little more serious, thinking maybe part of it's me. Maybe he's just growing tired of all our differences. I still wear my jeans, but not so often anymore and Dobey keeps throwing me strange looks.

The moment I knew things had really changed for the worse was after I told him how I felt about Kira and had reached over and brushed my fingers against his hand gripping the counter in an attempt to shore our friendship. It didn't move or acknowledge me and a few seconds later, Hutch left.

It took a grenade nearly blowing up in our faces for both of us to realize Kira had never really been the problem, only the symptom. But I think it shook us both up enough to stop and really look at each other and for the first time in a long time, I thought I saw a little crack in Hutch's amour.

It wasn't until after Gunther though that I really felt the crack opening.

Even after I first woke up from the coma, Hutch still wouldn't come close enough to touch me. But I could tell the reasons were a lot different. He was scared, really scared, like if he touched me I was suddenly going to blow away and disappear. Sometimes I could feel those hands wanting to reach out, aching to, but they always fell back.

Hutch had come in, was leaning over me, watching as I struggled to pry my eyes open. I could tell he hated seeing me like this, it was tearing him apart, but still he didn't touch me.

I was in so much pain, despite the morphine, and at that moment I just needed to feel him again. It was a desperate, pathetic need, I know, but at that moment, I couldn't help myself.

I knew he needed room, some space and I had tried, tried for a long time to give him that, but I was really scared right now 'cause I knew without him, I didn't think I had enough stuff left in me to make it. Not this time.

Those hands were wrapped around the bedrail, the closest they've been to me in days. I struggled to reach out towards them. I brushed the knuckles with my fingers tips. For a second there was no response and I thought back to that day with Kira when Hutch had rejected my touch and I swallowed hard.

But then I felt those beautiful fingers wrapping around mine, tentatively at first, then with a need that seemed as big as mine. My hand was soon engulfed in those huge big strong hands and when I looked up I could see the glimmer of tears in his eyes.

I smiled, squeezed the hand holding mine as much as my weak strength would allow. I felt the return squeeze which lingered and the other hand moved slowly until I felt the brush of those long fingers touch my hair and I knew then, things were going to be all right. That _we_ were going to be all right.

In the months that followed my slow painful recovery, those hands kept returning to my side. They helped me in and out of bed, and took care of my embarrassing personal needs. They fixed my meals and pushed me to eat when I didn't want to. They helped me with my exercises and kneaded the sore muscles after.

Sometimes the were bone tired at the end of the day, sometimes they were bunched up in anger or frustration matching my moodiness as I pushed myself to my limits to get better. And on occasion the finger would emerge when I pushed myself too far and pulled a few muscles or tried to rush damaged lung tissue before it was ready. Those same hands would later bring me a heating pad and linger across my legs draped across his lap while I lay miserably on the couch.

But they were always there and I knew they always would be the day one hand thunked me upside the head.

The thunk was followed by an insult that went along the lines of what the hell was I thinking as he whips the chilly, cheese dog out my hands and replaces it with another one of his damn health shakes intended to fatten me up without sending me into a gastrointestinal nightmare.

I glare at him, defiant, but my anger doesn't last long as I see a devilish smile spread across his clean lips, no longer hidden behind the bushy caterpillar. In his other hand he produces a candy bar, his eyes glittering in a way I haven't seen in a long time, a really long time.

It's clearly a bribe, I know, and with a roll to my eyes, I drink the damn shake and hand him back the glass.

Our fingers touch for an instant, and once again I feel that connection, the power and the strength. And in those long fingers, I feel the restoration of our bond. It's stronger now, stronger than ever before.

He smiles and once again I am forever grateful to have the touch of my partner back in my heart.

(The End - or I guess you could say, a new beginning.)


End file.
